February First

F ebruary is here again, and again we

E mbark on a project that

B oth comforts and consoles, supports and surprises,

R evisits and reconsiders and remembers and redeems.

U have all checked back in so that we can be together

A s we face the blizzards and valentines and short short days,

R esting for a moment the heaviness of this month

Y earning for solace in the warmth of our wide and deep community.

Welcome back!

Midway through January, I sent Ruthie a totally out of context email to ask about the February Project. I had forgotten about it (spring, summer, and fall can make one forget) and then a cold spurt hit Boston and I thought, Ugh, Fuck February, and then I REMEMBERED. So with my totally pre-emptive enthusiasm to get the Feb project up and rollin again, Ruthie offered me the coveted first post spot. What a kavod! What a month.

I looked back at what I posted here last year, and I just can’t believe how sad I was. I was so sad. I’m not sad anymore. But even with the passing of sadness, still always a little speck of sadness remains; the scar tissue; the threat of sadness again, at some unforeseen unanticipated moment; the crumpled up piece of paper that can never be fully smoothed out again no matter how you press it. Which is of course, the point of the February Project. We had a very bad February five years ago. Some of us have had very bad Februarys since. And all of us will have a very bad February again.

Am I stronger now, having gotten through a year of sadness? Maybe. I think sometimes I just feel more tired. But I do know that when I laugh, I laugh a little deeper, even amidst the ever-present little twinge of despair that now accompanies me. Laughs are rare and sacred. Make them big.

So, you all, far and wide, some of whom I know, and many of whom I don’t, those with whom I share the experience that brings me to this community, and those of you whom I don’t, all of us who are reading and writing:  Thank you all so much for being here. I am grateful for your wisdom that adds to our collective toolbox called “How To Face February.” Hopefully, together, our combined pain can be communal armor. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.

This is the place.

And I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair

streams black, the merman in his armored body.

We circle silently

about the wreck

we dive into the hold.

I am she: I am he 

whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes

whose breasts still bear the stress

whose silver, copper, vermeil cargo lies

obscurely inside barrels

half-wedged and left to rot

we are the half-destroyed instruments

that once held to a course

the water-eaten log

the fouled compass

We are, I am, you are

by cowardice or courage

the one who find our way

 back to this scene

carrying a knife, a camera

a book of myths in

which our names do not appear.